


Caught in the Rain

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Series: Witcher Winters [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cold Weather, First Meetings, Gen, Light Angst, Platonic Cuddling, Soft Lambert (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: In his time, Lambert’s heard a lot of rumors about witchers. And that old rumor about witcher’s being incapable of feeling the cold?It’s a fucking lie.<>Lambert and Jaskier first meet in the middle of a rainstorm
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Series: Witcher Winters [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038222
Comments: 3
Kudos: 117





	Caught in the Rain

In his time, Lambert’s heard a lot of rumors about witchers. That they can’t feel or think for themselves, that they’re no better than the monsters they fight. That their bones are made of the same silver and steel they fight with, that their eyes are plucked from animals and implanted to help them see. That they can’t feel the heat of the sun or the chill of ice, that they’re numb to pain and comfort alike. That they have fangs or horns or claws or bloodlust. That they’re heroes; that they’re beasts.

Sometimes, it gets to the point where even Lambert can’t remember which of the tales are based in truth. Are his teeth any sharper than an average human’s? Can non-witchers really not smell the overpowering stench of dried blood? Is he as different as they all say? He ponders these questions for no more than a minute before turning to take the next contract. Doesn’t really matter what people say, does it? So long as he gets the job done?

Well, one problem with that solution— each rumor is eventually either proven false or true. And, today? That old rumor about witcher’s being incapable of feeling the cold?

It’s a fucking  _ lie _ .

The travel down from Kaer Morhen is no warmer to Lambert than it was on the venture up however many months ago. Ice rests heavy across the land, freezing over the path and slowing his trek. He curses colorfully and creatively for the better part of a half hour when his horse refuses to walk across a half-frozen puddle. 

“Fucking pathetic,” he mutters once he gets her past it. “Bet Eskel and Geralt don’t have to deal with this shit.”

And, because the world is out to get him, the wind howls louder and grows colder. He raises his hand in a crude gesture towards it, scowling deeper.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he says because blaming Eskel and Geralt always makes him feel a bit better. 

His jacket is poor protection against the elements even as he tries to curl into it, hunching his shoulders against the attack of the wind. Through the trees, he watches as clouds thicken and plump up with the threat of snow or rain, and he sighs heavily at the thought of it. He’d shake a fist at the sky if his hands weren’t buried so deeply into his pockets. 

“Remind me why I come up here every year?” He asks no one in particular— his bastard of a horse certainly isn’t going to answer and, even if she did, it wouldn’t be one he liked. "They’re not worth this shit.”

Ah. Another lie. One he’s happy to believe. Otherwise, he’ll think of how the thought of the furs Vesemir lays out before the fires helps him to make it through the storms on the way up, the blankets warm and pleasant by the time he arrives. Or he’ll think of just how fucking hot Eskel gets— a fucking furnace all on his own— and how he rolls his eyes at every excuse Lambert makes to leech the heat from him, be it tackling him to the ground or stealing his jacket the second he takes it off— though, the last time he did the latter, he stunk of goat for a week. Or, fuck, maybe he’ll think of training with Geralt in the yard until they’re both gross and sweating, hot and sore but content with the warmth. He’ll think of shitty meals and shittier jokes, nights of white gull and mornings of sunrises over the snow. He’ll think of everything he things of when traveling up this path, every bit of Kaer Morhen that makes him grumble that  _ fine, but this is the last time I’m visiting— _

“Fuck!” He yells, kicking at a rock. They’re near enough to the end of the path that he doesn’t bother wondering if Vesemir will hear his complaints. “I hate this!”

_ This  _ being the chill wrapped around his skin and bones, holding him like it has a claim.  _ This  _ being the utter loneliness and emptiness of the world around him, filling itself with the fog of his breath and the sound of his feet kicking each bush they pass.  _ This  _ being snow on his boots and water splashing against his knees, dirty puddles and animals running from his presence.  _ This  _ being everything that a witcher fucking is, every bit of coldness that the world has to offer.

Kaer Morhen’s a place to play-pretend, and it’s such a fucking sham at it, too. Why should the place that made him into  _ this  _ be the same place that smells of  _ home _ ?

It’s all unfair but, as Lambert wanders free from the mountain’s path and back into the real world, what else is fucking new?

He chances a glance at the sky, grimacing at the darkening shades. Definitely going to rain— snow, maybe, if the gods really want to prove they hate him. He’ll have a bit more time to travel before it starts to come down, but he’ll want to start looking for some shelter soon. There’s a town a bit further out but he hasn’t the coin to stay in any inns yet— he won’t have that until he’s completed a few contracts.

So, the forest it is. He shakes his head and continues on, still cursing to himself as he walks.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

So, Jaskier’s learning rather quickly, no amount of sweet talk or charming flirtations can keep him in a lover’s bed longer than a weekend. It’s— Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing new, really. 

Of course, in the past, he’d be tossed out due to a spouse’s sudden arrival— and Jaskier’s sudden realization that maybe he should have paid more attention to the pair of boots left by the door or the scandalized looks from others at the tavern. On the unluckier occasions, it could be a family member walking in at the worst possible moment. Then, it’d be a rush of apologies and explanations, tying up his trousers as he tried not to kill himself on the way out the window. 

This time, though— Well, apparently, it was nothing but boredom.

_ “But you understand, don’t you?”  _ She’d asked, a lovely lady with golden curls and the name of a constellation.  _ “Being a bard and all? You’re not really supposed to stick around.” _

Ah, yes. He must have been absent the day they taught that one in Oxenfurt. 

But, as he keeps telling himself, it’s fine. At least she’d been kind enough to let him collect his things before sending him out into the rain. 

Because, of course, it’s raining. Dark as dusk, even though he knows it’s just a bit past midday. He holds his lute case close, running his hands across it to be sure there’s no way for any water to get through and ruin the instrument. 

The case is chilled against his hand and he withdraws with a small frown. A few hours ago, he’d been running his fingers down some pretty girl’s spine, sighing as her body heat mingled with his on the bed. She’d laughed about him playing her like a lute, and Jaskier had thought it meant she’d like for him to stay. 

Stupid. Foolish. Naive, really. Now, he walks down the muddy streets with his hands shoved beneath his armpits, trying desperately to keep warm. His teeth chatter with each gust of wind rushing past him. Everyone else is inside, tucked away with their loved ones or, at least, with a warm drink. Seems everyone else had already obtained rooms at the inn while Jaskier was busy daydreaming about his next great romance. 

He shuts that line of thought off as soon as it comes. If he thinks of that, he’ll send himself down a spiral of every other lover who’s had reason to leave him. Damp and soaked, walking himself out of the town like a rejected pup, he’s far too low already to let his thoughts get that depressing.

Jaskier finds himself amongst trees and bushes soon enough, the town behind him as he tucks himself into the familiarity of the forest. It only barely protects him from the rain and wind, icy drops finding the space between his doublet and skin, sinking in without invitation. He shudders, curling into himself with gritted teeth. 

There’s a path here, one that a signpost promises will lead him to the next town within the hour. Jaskier’s coin purse is thin from his time in the last village— a time spent flirting rather than playing, his own fault— but he hopes he can strike a deal with the innkeeper all the same. 

_ “I’ve trudged through the wild and the storm just to perform for your measly crowd of five drunk men,”  _ he’ll say, and water will drip from his bangs and add to the pathetic nature of his situation. Oh, yes, it’ll be perfect. 

Jaskier sighs. It’s only half as dramatic as it could be. 

The girl’s words echo in his ears, blending with the wind until it’s one long howl reminding him that bards have no place in anyone’s lives as anything more than a bed warmer or performer. 

He shudders but the chill remains, icy drops of rain stretching down his spine. 

He’ll make sure not to forget his place next time.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

As if to emphasize just how much basically everything about Lambert’s life sucks, his fire is barely a fire. He supposes he should be grateful it lit at all, considering how wet the wood was when he collected it, but he’s not really the biggest fan of being grateful for anything in a life that sent him to Kaer Morhen. So, instead, he swears at the fire as if that will convince it to actually heat the fucking place up. 

He grips one of the twigs sticking out from the edge and uses it to push the rest of the wood around, stoking the flames until they put some effort into their existence. His sigh fills the air with a web-shaded mist, tugging from his throat until it disappears into the space around him. 

“Maybe I’ll lose a finger like that one bandit from Novigrad,” he says, holding his hand out in front of him. He’s warmed a bit since taking a break but there’s still a dull ache around his knuckles, courtesy of the snow currently packed beneath his ass. He tossed a spare blanket across the ground in an attempt to keep from thoroughly freezing through but he can barely feel the difference. “That looked pretty badass.”

No one responds, and his voice echoes back to him from off the trees. 

Still, the fire grows and the rain falls. What other companions are witchers meant to have?

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s a game, almost, for Lambert to sit next to the fire and guess when he’ll hear the next uneasy shift of weight from whoever it is hiding behind the trees before him. He’d thought it to be an animal, at first, but then it had gasped softly— either at the fire or at Lambert, he doesn’t know. In the time that’s passed since then, twigs have snapped under uncertain feet. The scent of curiosity and hesitation drift towards him— hesitation, Lambert notes, but never fear. So, either they don’t know they’ve stumbled upon a witcher, or they’re a fool. 

Geralt’s voice in his head, muttering about some useless bard who’s taken to following him around for the past few years. Geralt’s words, asking quietly with white gull on his breath, wondering if it’s possible for someone to be so stupidly unafraid.

It’s Geralt’s fault, then, that Lambert leans back and calls out.

“Well, then, don’t just stand there,” he says. “You’re freaking me out.”

Then, all at once, there the stranger is. Peeled out from the shadows, a lute on his back and water dripping from his hair. His nice clothes are half-ruined from the weather, sticking to him like a rash rather than anything protective, but he still offers a small smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to bother. I just saw the fire, and I thought—”

He trails off, or maybe Lambert just stops listening. Either way— fucking hell, what are the odds?

This is exactly the fool Lambert had been thinking about. 

That, or there are far too many fearless bards for the Continent to handle. 

“Thought you’d hide behind a tree and spy on a helpless witcher?” Lambert asks, watching as the boy before him gapes. What had Geralt said he was called? Has Geralt ever even mentioned the poor bastard’s name? Knowing Geralt, he probably thinks his new friend is just called “bard” and that’s it. 

“Of course not!” Bard says, seeming offended at the suggestion. “But I wasn’t going to just come right out and demand to share your fire, was I?”

“Why not?” Lambert asks. 

“I— What?” The boy pauses, gripping the strap to his lute case with a hand that is most definitely going to fall off if he doesn’t warm it up soon. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why wouldn’t you ask? You’re clearly not afraid, and you’re definitely freezing through.” Lambert gestures to basically all of the bard’s trembling body. “Don’t let pride get in the way of comfort, kid. It’ll kill you before the cold does.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the bard says, flushing. “And don’t call me  _ kid—  _ it’s condescending. My name’s Jaskier, since you’re so obviously going to ask.”

_ Jaskier _ — yeah, Geralt definitely never mentioned a name. Lambert snorts.

“Call yourself what you like, but no amount of rain is gonna get you to blossom or grow,” he says, smirking at the offended sounds leaving Jaskier’s mouth. “Now are you gonna come share in the fire or not?”

“Oh! Oh, um, may I?” Jaskier kicks at the ground. Fucking hell, for all his cocky tones and confident attitude, he’s one hell of a nervous wreck. Lambert doesn’t bother answering, rolling his eyes and shoving himself towards the side to make room. Jaskier hesitates for just a moment before rushing over, practically falling into the space at Lambert’s side.

Lambert stiffens but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice, eagerly shoving his hands out towards the flames. He’s so childish— so excitable— that Lambert almost feels he should hold him back— scold him or warn him or something.

Instead, he holds still. Jaskier’s pressed against him as though it’s no problem to be so close to a witcher, the dampness of his clothes soaking into Lambert’s own. Lambert should be pissed about it, grumbling about how long it took him to dry off, but beneath the wet there’s warmth. Jaskier’s warmth. The sudden sensation of another person, another being, blunders through Lambert’s walls all at once. His hands twitch in his lap, uncertain of what to do.

Beside him, Jaskier rambles on about how he got to be here— kicked out from a lover’s home, wandering through the woods in order to fully feel his self-pity— but Lambert barely pays attention. 

So, when Jaskier turns and asks a question, Lambert blinks and tries to remember what the hell he’d been talking about.

“The cold,” Jaskier repeats, rolling his eyes with a fond— no,  _ not  _ fond— shake of his head. “Does it bother you? Or is that another thing witchers are immune to?”

What a stupid question.

“I built a fire, didn’t I?” His voice isn’t half as gruff as he’d like it to be, not half as aggressive. “Of course I get fucking cold.”

Somehow, it seems to be just the answer Jaskier had been hoping for.

“Good,” he says, leaning forward. “Then you have no excuse not to cuddle me. It’s the best cure for the cold, I’ll have you know, and since we’re the only two here, it only makes sense that…”

Jaskier continues to ramble. Lambert’s sure he’ll have a headache before the storm is through.

Still, he wraps an arm around Jaskier, tugs him close to his side. It’s— It doesn’t  _ mean  _ anything, only that they’re cold and that, as Jaskier said, this is the only logical way to deal with it.

But he feels Jaskier smile against him and, somehow, that’s warmer than anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
